


Bringing On The Great

by Detochkina



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Pining, Romance, Smut, Sports, some xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:16:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Arthur Pendragon has been on the fast track to Olympic success since childhood, fellow teammate and rival Merlin Emrys keeping Arthur on his toes. Between dueling fathers, doting mothers, and a media frenzy—there’s no room for error in Rio, let alone a romantic relationship. But when Merlin tries to confide to Arthur a secret, one linked to their shared pasts,  Arthur needs to decide if his history with Merlin is worth more than gold. </i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing On The Great

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very last-minute thing, but when I saw the sign-up for this fest I couldn't resist. The honor to participate in this challenge only happens once in 4 years after all.  
> There are definitely some inaccuracies regarding swimming events and procedures, so consider it as a disclaimer, I guess. Also, not britpicked. If you'd be so kind to offer britpicking for the story, please contact me. Thank you. 
> 
> Huge thanks to my amazing friends [M](https://twitter.com/editsandsnark?lang=en) and [Candymacaron](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/pseuds/Candymacaron) who helped to beta this story and held my hand through the process as usual (aka talked me off the ledge repeatedly). M and Candy, my undying gratitude and love are going out to you. You're wonderful!  
> Also, I'd like to thank [Kitty](http://olympic-mod.livejournal.com/), Merlin Olympics mod, who's been incredibly patient and accommodating with the posting date!
> 
> All mistakes are my own. Thank you for reading.

**Bringing on the Great**

 

 

Rio, Day 1

  

“ _It felt pretty good. It felt pretty easy. Job’s not done yet_ ,” Uther mocks the laptop screen where a winded interviewee answers questions after having just finished his preliminary heat. “Look at your flabby arms. You’re as good as done.”

“He just broke his own world record, Dad,” Arthur mutters, drying his hair with a towel after a shower. He’s back at the Olympic Village, muscles still singing from showing his own personal best in the prelim race two hours ago. He doesn’t need to watch the coverage to know the news. His phone’s been blowing up for the past ten minutes with notifications. Yes, of course Arthur has the search phrase “Merlin Emrys” in the alerts; he’s his rival, every accomplishment of his a stab at the Pendragons’ famous legacy, which Arthur’s reminded about every day of the week, including Sundays and Boxing Day. No escape from the pressure.

“Breaststroke is all Emrys is good at,” Uther dismisses with a scoff. “One-trick pony, just like his father.”

“Oh here we go again,” Arthur says under his breath, but Uther hears him, of course.

“Don’t you argue with me, Son. I know what I’m talking about. These games will be yours, and Balinor will be eating his Paddy cap like he’s done for years and years.”

Arthur groans. “Dad, please, you can’t say things like that.”

“I say what I mean when it’s true.” Uther jabs the air with his finger pointed at Arthur. “ _You_ were the flag-bearer yesterday for our country, Arthur, not some Irish boy. We have a reason to hold our heads high. You hear me?”

Arthur sighs. Yes, he’s heard it a hundred, maybe a million times before. Arthur Pendragon’s the best, he’s untouchable. He’s the one who can’t be beat at these Olympic games _,_ with his iron lungs and golden feet. And he certainly believes it himself, otherwise he’d never have made it to the Rio Olympics, while being the face of iconic brands like Nike, British Airways, Omega, and Evian.

“Yes, Father,” he agrees obediently, or this conversation will never end.

A mention of Arthur’s name draws both Pendragons’ attention back to the laptop’s screen. A picture of Arthur appears side by side next to Merlin Emrys. Arthur’s looking straight at the camera, wearing a faint frown on his lips and the navy blazer of the Great Britain and Northern Ireland Olympic team, all buttoned up. His opponent’s tousled black hair, obscenely bright grin, and team shirt that looks like it’s been chewed by a cow is a striking contrast to Arthur’s polished, almost royal appearance. The journalist comments on the images of both swimmers with gusto, calling bets on who will come out with more Gold medals out of these games -- the officials favourite, twenty-two-year-old Englishman Arthur Pendragon, or his slightly younger teammate, a Northern Irish media darling. A blinking hashtag, _#theonetobeat,_ runs across Arthur’s image and Arthur could swear Merlin’s grin has just turned even brighter. Arthur has no doubt this snapshot will be all over social media within hours, taunting him whenever he browses online.

With a grunt of a man outraged, Uther shuts the laptop, just in time with someone knocking on the door.

Uther gets to his feet. “Probably your mother.” His expression softens as he says it, almost contrite. “I better be going.”

Ygraine, never one for letting her husband’s controlling nature take over their family life, is indeed at the entrance when Arthur opens the door, here to his rescue and to his relief.

“Hi, Mum.” Arthur leans to kiss her cheek when she steps inside. “How are you? Still jetlagged?”

“Eh.” Ygraine waves it off. “Uther, why are you here? Nagging our son again?”

“I’m his coach,” Uther tries to remind his wife, who arches blonde brow, like her son’s, at him, and he bows his head like a scorned, guilty dog right away.

Turning to Arthur, she gives him her usual motherly once-over, smiles softly, and pulls him into a hug, murmuring, “Forgive your father. He’s just a bit nervous. It’s not every day his son competes in the Olympics, you understand.”

Uther pffts, muttering something like, “Me, nervous? Bah.”

“Are you all right?” Ygraine asks Arthur, keeping her hands on his shoulders and studying his face. Arthur nods. “You didn’t stay at the gallery to watch the rest of the races. Hunith just texted me. Merlin did really well in the prelims.”

Uther snorts, expressing his total disdain of what he hears. 

Ygraine shakes her head. “The boys are teammates, Uther. They represent the best there is, and they should be there to support each other even if they are competitors in the pool.”

“It was his decision!” Uther protests, raising his hands. “He wanted to watch Netflix and chill, or whatever it is they do on their computers nowadays!”

“And you didn’t suggest otherwise,” Ygraine notes. “You both should know better.” Uther looks away while Arthur fastidiously shuffles his feet. She does not look happy with either one of them. “Well now. Your father needs to take his cholesterol medication and there’s yet another coach orientation. And you, Arthur, have your schedule to stick to. Your press conference is in two hours.”

Arthur nods and hugs his mother again.

“When are you going to let that old feud go?” he hears Ygraine ask Uther once the door closes behind them. “It’s been thirty years.”

Whatever Uther answers is indiscernible, but knowing his father, Arthur doubts it’s anything relenting. Maybe it’s for the better.

 

 

 

Arthur walks in last, and the conference room is already so packed with press, the air conditioner is barely managing its job. This is a team event and the core of the Great Britain swimming squad is being interviewed; therefore it’s mandatory and unavoidable.

Still, Arthur’s not looking forward to spending the next hour getting dehydrated or worse -- having a leg cramp. There’s a battery of bottled water on the table for them, which Arthur knows better than to touch. That’s why he carries his own drinks in his Rio 2016 bag, which are full of electrolytes and vitamins, but there isn't much he can do about muscle cramps or the fact that his name sign on the table is placed right next to Merlin Emrys’. Arthur’s brain cramps momentarily when he sees Merlin, already slumped in his seat. Disheveled, as always, in a wrinkled white team t-shirt that somehow suits him perfectly, Arthur’s rival is smiling and relaxed, knuckle-rolling a bottle cap between his long fingers while waiting for the conference to start.

Following the custom, Arthur greets every teammate personally as he joins them on the podium, and Merlin Emrys is no exception. Their eyes meet while their hands clasp in a shake. Merlin’s eyes are blue and full of mirth today and not at all stormy-grey and filled with confusion like the last time they were facing each other. He even smells just as Arthur remembers, taking in the familiar faint scent of Merlin’s aftershave.

“Still can’t iron to save your life, I see,” Arthur murmurs.

“Still forget to take your laxatives in the morning,” Merlin intones. 

They sit down, knocking their knees and offering no apologies.

Arthur, being the most decorated member of the team to date, gets the first question as usual.

“Mr Pendragon,” the young female journalist asks from the front row, her voice cracking from nerves. She licks her lips. “You made your international debut back in 2012, showing real promise right around the London Olympics. In the next four years leading up to these games, you won multiple championships, landed yourself three world titles, and showed your versatile abilities with a hat-trick full of gold in individual and relay races. You had a hugely successful 2015 season.” The journalist stops. She gulps.

“Yes?” Arthur smiles, hoping it’s encouraging enough for the girl to get to the point.

She looks at her notes, blushes. “Is it nerve-wracking?” she asks.

Arthur chuckles. “You mean right now?” He blinks a few times as multiple flashes go off, shutterflies clicking loudly in the room, catching the moment. He keeps his smile on, looking ahead.

“No... I mean...” The girl stammers. “After years of competing, and so many wins, are you used to the pressure?”

Arthur nods. “There’s definitely a certain routine to my work. Some of it has a mechanical taste to it, absolutely, so I can say that the novelty has already worn off, but it doesn’t mean the edge is all lost. I wouldn’t be here if I stopped pushing myself. So I actually welcome the pressure.”

What Arthur doesn’t say is how uneasy he is right at this moment, feeling the heat radiating off his rival’s thigh, too close to his own under the table. He shifts and reaches for his bottle of water.

“Go ahead. You.” The organiser points at someone else in the room. “Next question.”

“Mr Pendragon.” The chosen person with a press badge raises his hand. “You were elected to carry Great Britain’s flag yesterday, for the opening ceremony. Hashtags _#ironlungs_ and _#goldenfeet_ attributed to you were trending worldwide. Can you describe the feeling of being in the first row, leading the team, under the entire world’s watchful eye?”

Arthur leans back a bit, straightening. “I felt humbled. Honoured. Proud.” As cliche as it sounds, that’s all he can offer. Anything more would be too personal and belongs to him alone. A ripple goes through the room and Arthur’s heart sinks a little, sensing what is about to come. The reporters are not satisfied.

“There were many athletes, if not most of them at the ceremony, who filmed the event or took selfies,” says another badge, “yet we didn’t see you even holding a phone or a camera.”

Arthur takes another sip of his water. “Right.”

“From what we’ve been told, you do not have a Twitter account. Your Facebook page is run by your manager, Ygraine Pendragon. You post on Instagram only on occasion, a lot less in the past several months and most of them pictures of pools, airports, and meals. And we’re yet to find your Snapchat stories. Although we’ve looked.” The journalist smiles.

Arthur doesn’t find it funny. “What’s your question, sir?”

“You’ve just told us that your life is a routine. It sure feels like it, judging by what you share on your social media. What’s your life like outside of the pool? What do you do when you’re not practising or competing?”

Well, that escalated quickly. From professional praise to invasion of his private life in a snap. Arthur takes a sharp breath through his nose, willing his irritation down and a smile back on his face.

“I’m sorry to be such a bore, but I’ve nothing exciting to share. To avoid losing your readership en masse” -- he turns up his smile by a few degrees -- “why don’t you ask my teammates? They always have brilliant stories to tell.”

Arthur forces himself to turn, spreading his elbows wide on the table claiming so much space, Emrys has to shift aside a little. They eye each other for a beat, and Arthur nods, carefully constraining the ice in his voice. “Merlin?”

Merlin tilts his head in a similar way, eyebrow raised. “Arthur?” He says that with maximum brightness, and if it sounds a bit forced too, it’s doubtful anyone notices besides Arthur. They’ve mastered this game.

“Care to take a turn?” Arthur asks. 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Merlin responds cheerfully, and, turning back to face the room full of reporters, asks, “So, who wants to pry first?”

Reporters laugh, more cameras blinding them in rapid succession.

“I’m afraid we know so much about your adventures, Mr Emrys, there’s not much left to ask,” one of them announces.

Arthur wishes he could disagree. One doesn’t need to be a stalker, which Arthur’s decidedly _not_ , to know Merlin’s whereabouts and what he’s up to. It’s all on Merlin’s palm, through his always-ready camera. And often -- too often -- offering much more information than anyone asks.

“Try!” Valiant Balor jeers loudly. Valiant is the 400m Individual Medley British Champion, who clinched his victory barely in a time qualifying him for Rio Olympics. Still, he’s better than most in his discipline, even if he has the personality of a snake.

“Merlin, you practise and compete as much as the other guy, and are a world champion yourself. Just today you beat your own world record. What an incredible achievement,” a reporter from the back row complements.

This prompts some cheers and claps and Merlin bows with a hand on his heart, grinning broadly.

“You are on every social media platform, practically twenty-four-seven,” the reporter continues. “You have hundreds of thousands of followers, quite a rabid fanbase. How do you do it? Balance your athletic career and social life so successfully?”

“Thanks, mate, thanks.” Merlin chuckles. He shrugs. “Special talents, I guess, and very little sleep. I try to enjoy every minute of whatever I do each day.”

“You should give your teammate a few tips,” someone else says.

Merlin's smile fades a bit. He coughs. Arthur tenses but otherwise doesn’t react.

“I don’t think Arthur would appreciate that,” Merlin says, darting a look in his direction. “Sharing feelings isn’t exactly his forte.”

Merlin’s foot shifts under the table, kicking Arthur’s. Arthur isn’t certain if it was on accident, or some sort of a sign to speak up or to stay quiet. His confusion lasts long enough for another reporter to ask a question, and it doesn’t click with Arthur at first. He picks up that it’s something he better pay attention to when the room becomes unnaturally still, like the sea before a perfect storm.

“What was it again?” Arthur asks and Merlin hisses.

The reporter is only happy to repeat himself. “I was asking about your fathers. Uther and Balinor used to be on the same swimming team for years and participated in the Olympics as well. Balinor took Gold and Silver in 1976 in Montreal. Uther Pendragon repeated his success in 1980 in Moscow and added the Bronze for the Medley Relay. Interesting fact,” the reporter continues, reading off the printout in his hand, “both Uther and Balinor were announced to race in the Medley Relay in Montreal, but were replaced at the last minute. Experts say that decision cost Britain a sure Gold, but the real reasons for the switch-up were never revealed. There was one strong theory, however: Uther and Balinor got into a fight the night before the Relay, and although there was no official follow up, they essentially were stripped of the chance to compete by their coach and sent home. From what’s been observed by media over the years, it doesn’t look like the cold war is over. Would you care to comment on what happened between your fathers? And does it have any effect on your relationship as teammates?”

As if on cue, every journalist in the room leans forward with their recorders extended towards their podium, their breaths bated.

A noise escapes from Arthur’s throat before he can catch it. Of course he knows better than to take bait cast so blatantly, but he’s dangerously close to it this time. A muscle jumping in Merlin’s clenched jaw doesn’t escape his notice, yet Merlin manages to keep a semi-genuine smile on his face while Arthur fails to remain neutral. Arthur’s leg starts to bounce. Merlin’s shoulder brushes against Arthur’s and somehow it helps to ground Arthur and keeps him from saying something rude. It’s funny, how Arthur’s the one labeled “posh”, “stuck up”, and “cagey” by the media, yet it’s Merlin, with his daily vlogs and Instagrams, who’s a master of controlling rumours and handling himself under public eye. Special talent, indeed.

This reminds Arthur why he can’t stand Merlin. Anything Arthur does, Merlin can do better unless Arthur puts in twice, three times the work. Anything Arthur covets after for years, Merlin just comes and snatches away. Everyone loves Merlin, everyone wants to be like Merlin, everyone wants him. And Merlin gladly takes it all in, uses it to his advantage, benefiting from all that attention in every sense of the word.

Well, Arthur isn’t here to hand what’s his to Emrys on a silver platter, and he doesn’t need his help.

Someone else clears their throat at the table -- possibly Leon Knight, their Commonwealth gold medalist in the 200m Individual Medley.

“Our fathers are perfectly civil,” Arthur says loudly. “There’s no animosity between our families whatsoever.”

When it becomes clear that no further comments will be offered on that topic, the reporter persists, “And what about you two? You haven’t been seen in the same room together for months. Even in official team promos you’re captured on opposite sides.”

“That’s very observant of you,” Merlin steps in. “But you’re reading too much into it. We’re good friends.” He looks at Arthur, smiling, warmth itself.

“One more, quickly, since you said it was okay to pry,” the young woman reporter who asked Arthur the very first question requests, her smile falsely coy. “Are you aware that many of Merlin Emrys’ fans ship you two together?”

Elyan Smith, the youngest swimmer on their team, who excels in Freestyle and is one to watch out for at these games, laughs and leans over to look at Arthur and Merlin, waggling his brows at them.

Arthur frowns. “Ship us? What does that mean?”

“It means,” the woman offers readily, “they see you as a couple. In real life.”

Valiant booms with laughter and slaps Merlin on the shoulder. “Right on, mate. You’ll look good in a wedding dress.”

A few people on the floor start vigorously taking notes, clearly sensing the potential for a juicy story featuring particular members of the swimming team being intolerant or plain ignorant. Valiant may be too dim to recognise the signs of trouble as he starts to say something else with such a lewd expression, it can’t possibly be anything mild.

Merlin shrugs Valiant’s hand off. Talking over him, Merlin says, “Of course, we can’t stop people from imagining whatever they want, but I assure you, there’s absolutely no truth to any of the rumours. We treat each other with respect. We’re mates, but we’re not close... Next question?” Merlin’s eyes scan the room.

“Does it mean you’re both single?” the girl cuts in again, her sharp eyes jumping from Merlin’s face to Arthur’s.

“Yes,” Arthur answers immediately.

“Not exactly,” Merlin says at the same time.

Arthur stares at Merlin’s profile, at the straight line of his mouth, expression polite but firm, and he can’t quite believe the nerve.

Merlin turns to the farthest side of the floor, addressing reporters there, a signal this particular topic is closed. “Another question, please.”

The rest of the conference is a blur. There are more questions and jabs, some laughter, the rest of his teammates receiving the attention they deserve, but Arthur doesn’t register much of it.

The minute they’re dismissed, he stalks out in search of a loo.

 

 

 

Arthur has to splash his face with cold water a few times before locking himself in a stall. His stomach is queasy, his head hurts, and he’s gasping with anger. He hates that he’s so angry. He hates that he can be so easily riled up. And why? It’s not the first time the press have been digging for dirt on the Pendragons. It’s not the first time Emrys and he have been antagonised, their reactions tested and scrutinised. But no matter what anyone thinks, it’s not in Arthur’s job description to be pried open, the most private parts of his life exposed and picked at. He didn’t sign up to just lie back and think of England whenever the public demanded it. His job is to swim and to _win_. And if Emrys fancies himself a celebrity, sod it, he can kiss and tell, and be a sell-out. In the meantime, Arthur has gold medals to score.

With his hands on the wall and eyes closed, Arthur takes a few deep breaths, repeating to himself his own mantra, _You’re a Pendragon. You’re unbeatable. You’re the winner._ This always gives him a boost, and it doesn’t fail him now.

He exits the stall a few minutes later, with not a wrinkle on his trousers and his shirt, and startles at the sight of Merlin leaning against the sink. 

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur gasps, clutching at his chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing standing here?”

Merlin’s gaze sweeps over him from head to toe. It's so intensely sharp, Arthur has to suppress a shiver.

Merlin pauses. “The bus is waiting outside to take us to the Village. You were taking too long.”

Arthur scoffs. “And they sent you of all people?”

“I volunteered.”

Arthur brushes it off. “Noble, but not necessary.” He steps in to wash his hands.

Merlin doesn't move away. His eyes catch Arthur’s in the mirror, and Arthur ducks his head, feeling stupid for it.

“Why haven't you replied to any of my texts or emails?” Merlin asks.

Arthur turns on the tap and fights the urge to stick his head under the cold water.

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, quieter. “Can we please talk?”

Arthur starts scrubbing his hands. “About what?”

“Um…” Merlin shifts. “Maybe not right here.”

The soap smells like a cheap antiseptic, and Arthur hates it. It will haunt him for hours after this. “No,” he says decisively. “Go back on the bus, Merlin.”

“Why do you…” Merlin pushes himself away from the sink. “I thought we were--”

Arthur whips his head up. “Were what?”

Merlin contemplates Arthur’s reflection with a frown, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Arthur remembers this expression, but in an entirely different setting. With a lot less confrontation and a lot more naked skin. But that’s done with, a matter of the past.

“What?” he snaps. Not bothering drying his hands, Arthur slings his bag forcefully over his shoulder and turns. The bag hits Merlin in the chest, which only makes Arthur angrier. At Merlin for not backing down. At himself for losing it so spectacularly. “Were what?”

Merlin shakes his head, exhales. “Not this.”

Arthur scowls. “I thought I made it clear back in April. I can't afford any distractions. I won’t change my mind.”

He wants it to be cold, dismissive, but it's hard to do when he doesn’t have enough air to breathe. Merlin's always been too earnest, too sincere. That's how they bonded in the first place, despite their fathers’ decades-long feud. Maybe their attraction to each other was born because of it, fueled by Uther and Balinor’s never shutting up about one another's son. Arthur had learned Merlin’s every stat, every move, every line of his body and what it was capable of, way before he ever studied it in his bed.

 

 

It had started on the day of the boys’ first regional meet. At seventeen, Arthur was already fit, taller and broader than Merlin, who was a year younger and looked more like a twig than a promising athlete ready to compete in serious events. Arthur wasn’t worried... Until the race started. Boy, did Merlin have technique. That day, watching him easily pass the 100m Breaststroke qualifiers and listening to his father swear under his breath, Arthur knew he’d have to work twice as hard if he wanted to keep ahead of Emrys.

Arthur did take first place in that event, Merlin coming in fourth, much to Uther’s gloating. Uther didn’t fail to make several scathing remarks in Merlin’s direction, followed by such a quick, fiery comeback from Balinor that it was obvious to everyone within earshot: it wasn’t a friendly ribbing between two competitive coaches; there was _history,_ and neither was willing to let go.

Uther refused to discuss it later, but to this day, Arthur remembers Merlin’s reaction. While their fathers were attempting to assassinate each other with deathly glares, Merlin stepped in front of Arthur. Goggles dangling between his teeth, his damp hair rumpled, and his eyes crinkling with laughter, he threw Arthur a dry towel and winked. Arthur thought he was mad. Mad and brave.

It was simple after that. The snickering behind their fathers’ backs. The sneaking out during Commonwealth games to stick “Attention! Fire Drill!” notices under the doors of Uther and Balinor’s hotel rooms, with thorough instructions where and when to gather during the mandatory emergency exercise. Watching two grown men awkwardly stomp outside of the hotel at 2am in freezing cold, waiting until it sank in, and laughing hysterically while their fathers cursed accusations in each other’s faces, was the best kind of revenge that Merlin and Arthur could share. There was also the accidental switch-up of Balinor and Uther’s bank cards, a dead rat in a shower, and a romantic dinner reservation for two. It was surprising the boys never got caught.

This went on for a few years, at every event and several conditioning camps.

When they were too beat to come up with new ideas on how to prank their fathers, they did something else. Like catching a movie together, or riding a bus nowhere in particular, or just sneaking into each other’s rooms late at night and talking.

Arthur liked being around Merlin. Merlin was chatty, and goofy, and also somehow always _bright,_ disarmingly open. He was Arthur’s competition but grew to become a great mate, funny and smart, easy to be with. Except sometimes, when it was late and they were alone and too knackered to do anything else but sprawl in an unmade bed, Merlin’s hand would be resting next to Arthur’s, nearly touching it, and their heads so close, Arthur could feel Merlin’s warm breath on his face. Something else would pass between them, something curious and wistful, something Arthur knew Merlin felt too. During those moments when it turned quiet, the air of uneasiness between them too thick, it would usually resolve by one of them bursting out laughing and kicking the other’s foot with a challenging, “Race you!” Both of them would file out of the room, pushing and shoving each other, trying to be as quiet as possible while they ran through the hallways outside.

There was one thing they hadn’t ever done in their spare time. As some unspoken rule, they never, never kicked it in a pool together. Merlin might have suggested this at some point, at the beginning, but Arthur quickly changed the topic. Swimming was Arthur’s, and that wasn’t going to change.

 

Rio, day 3

 

Arthur wakes up to the sound of the alarm, interrupted by his mobile ringing. On the caller ID is one word: “Dad”.

“I’m up, I’m up,” he grumbles. “I’m up,” he says into the mobile and hears a grunt back, “Better be. Downstairs in twenty.” He and his father are too much alike sometimes, especially in the mornings.

It's another meet day and he’s in two disciplines.

Pushing himself off the bed, Arthur pads to the window. Pink sunrays are already peeking from behind the Olympic Village high-risers. Arthur stretches, every joint popping with a satisfying sound, and it feels gooood. It’s weird how, on days like this -- big race days -- Arthur can tell from the moment he’s up whether he’s going to do great or not. There’s no competition that’s easy, but sometimes he just knows by the way his stomach feels and the muscle tension in his back and his legs if he’ll have to simply stick to the plan or really push himself.

Downstairs, on his way to the car, he catches a glimpse of Merlin exiting the lifts into the vestibule, Balinor and his mother, Hunith, in tow.

Arthur looks away so not to get caught staring and tries to sneak past them. Of course, Hunith notices him anyway.

“Arthur, Arthur,” she calls, waving. “Already leaving, lad? Our car’s not here yet. Can you ask your driver if he knows when ours is coming?”

Arthur sighs and turns. There’s no denying that apart from Ygraine, Hunith is the best mother one could ask for. The woman makes the most brilliant strawberry scones and gives the best hugs. Arthur’s convinced that every time she hugs him, his cortisol levels take a nosedive, wiping his grouchiness away.

“We don’t need his help.” Balinor looks more livid than usual, if it’s even possible, rocking on the balls of his feet. Who pissed in his cornflakes today? Maybe Hunith should cuddle with Balinor more.

Arthur chances a look at Merlin, who avoids meeting Arthur’s eyes, his face drawn and extremely pale. Merlin could definitely use a good hug right about now, Arthur thinks. But considering their last encounter after the press conference, he can’t blame Merlin for not wanting to have anything to do with him at this point.  

“Hullo, Mrs Emrys,” he greets but doesn’t approach the group.

Hunith waves again and laughs. “How many times should I tell you to call me Hunith?”

Arthur smiles. “Yes, of course.”

Balinor turns his back to Arthur and says something to Merlin in a low voice. An expression of defiance flushes in Merlin’s eyes before he drops them to the floor and nods.

“Big day today for you, boys, isn’t it?” Hunith asks. She’s always sweet and talkative, but today she’s especially chirpy.

The car honks outside for Arthur.

“Oh dear, I’m holding you up.” Hunith flails. “Go, go, sweetheart. And I hope you win today.”

“Hunith!” Balinor barks.

“Oh right,” Hunith says and shrugs with a dimpled smile. “I can’t help it, dear. I want them both to win.”

“Well, that’s not possible, is it?” Balinor snaps, glaring at Arthur. “All available Gold medals already have Merlin’s name on them.”

“Oh Balinor, will you ever let up?” Hunith sighs, and apologises, “Don't worry, Arthur, you’ll both do good. And there’s also the relay. Right, Merlin?”

Merlin draws his shoulders up but doesn’t look away from the floor.

“Off you go, boy,” Balinor snarls at Arthur, taking a posturing step forward.

Arthur juts his chin. “Good day, Mrs Emrys.”

“It’s Hunith! You funny thing!” Mrs Emrys calls as he heads out.

In the car, with Uther in the front passenger seat and Ygraine next to Arthur, Arthur puts his Beats on and cranks up The Who.

  

 

 

Arthur wasn’t exaggerating when he told the press that his life was mostly a routine. It’s true, but not on a day like today. Not after the race he’s just finished. His lungs and arms still burning from the strain, he sprays an explosion of water out of his mouth like a sea creature who’s just surfaced in all his majestic glory. Arthur not only came in first in his semi-round of the 200m Butterfly, he also beat an Olympic record that’s held up since 2008, and now he’s clapping back for the roaring, applauding crowd, basking in their generous display of love. The announcement, _UK,_ _Arthur Pendragon, 57.58s, OR,_ is in bright letters on a huge electronic scoreboard ahead, for the world to see and his country to celebrate. Getting out of the pool while the fans go crazy for him on the stands, Arthur could burst from pride and happiness. And he probably would if he didn’t have the 1500m Freestyle coming up shortly.

Putting his robe back on, he turns and greets a large group of people waving Great Britain flags and banners with Arthur’s name as their undoubtful champion. His mum is somewhere there, and half of his team. He feels incredible at this moment, invincible, but the job’s not done yet. He’s heard that somewhere before.

On his way back to the locker rooms, he’s stopped for an interview. It’s all pleasantries and congrats, and questions on whether he has a game plan for the races next day. Yes, he smiles and nods, of course he has.

“You must feel somewhat relieved after what happened in the semi-round right before yours,” the interviewer says, her eyes greedy for Arthur’s reaction, just like the rapidly blinking red light on the camera behind her.

Arthur smiles politely. “I didn’t pay attention. I try to avoid any distractions before my events.”

“Arthur,” Uther calls, tapping his watch.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Arthur says, curious yet relieved to be out of the spotlight. “I have another meet soon.”

They quickly wrap up.

 

 

Uther has not looked this obscenely exalted in a very long time; he’s practically glowing, and for a moment there Arthur isn’t certain he wants to know what’s made Uther so euphoric. He claps Arthur’s shoulder with such vigour, Arthur winces.

“Keep your head in the game,” Uther reminds him, and that’s the best compliment Arthur knows he’ll ever get from his father.

“What happened?” he asks calmly as they walk to the locker rooms. Uther smirks. It must be really good news of a very specific variety.

Arthur’s heartrate picks up, his mouth going dry. “Merlin?” he asks.

Uther nods. “Disqualified. Two-hundred Fly is yours.”

“Why?” For some reason it’s important to Arthur to know that it’s not doping, not some misconduct, and not because Balinor forgot how to act like a civilised person and his son’s respectable coach. Which has happened before.

“False start. The boy really lost his nerve there. I told you he was done.”

Thankfully, they’re alone at the lockers. Arthur sits down on the bench, leaning his back against the wall, and places a towel over his face, breathing deeply in and out. He should be happy, relieved, not like he’s… Arthur doesn’t exactly know what he feels right now. He’s not upset, exactly, he’s _disappointed._ Yes, that’s what it is, he realises. He’s been looking forward to that particular event tomorrow not only because it would be one of the finest achievements of his career, but also because he wanted to meet _Merlin_ there --in their first Olympics finals. He wanted to race him in the best pool the world could offer, knowing that with Merlin on his heels, he would have to push himself beyond limit. Because no matter what Uther said, no matter what Arthur said to himself, it’s Merlin Emrys, his former best friend, his ex-lover, his biggest rival, _Merlin_ is the one he truly cares to race against.

“Lie down,” Uther commands, misreading Arthur’s distress. “Get your feet up. Five minutes, then showers and warm up. Get some food in you.”

Arthur _grhms_ under the towel. He knows the drill.

 

 

 

For some reason, it’s not their first time that Arthur remembers best. Maybe because when Merlin had finally kissed him, Arthur was too surprised and too wound up to be able to think. Merlin had touched his face, whispering some nonsense about Arthur’s hair having turned green for all the chlorine. Arthur had snorted, bit Merlin’s bottom lip to shut him up. It’d felt good, right, to let Merlin pull his shirt off and allow exploratory grazes of Arthur’s sides and nipples that sent shivers of pleasure down Arthur’s spine.

At nearly nineteen, Merlin was no longer gangly; he was lean, lithe, and he was pushy, apparently already knowing how he liked it from the start, and Arthur had acceded without a second thought. Maybe because at that point, Arthur couldn’t imagine anyone else in place of Merlin, or maybe because there was no one else he’d trusted so explicitly.

Later, Arthur had written off what happened as another way for them to let out steam. If his friend was interested, and Arthur was horny, what was a little favour between two good mates? Merlin had laughed too, just as uneasy, but didn’t disagree.

Arthur had initiated their next time.

That’s not what Arthur thinks of when he allows himself the short trip down memory lane. His favourite memories are of Merlin and him getting it on after an especially rigorous training session or after an important race lost. When they were so drained, it felt like any more exertion would break them, yet neither of them could stay away. Being tired meant slow and on the edge of sensual, with shaky fingers, unsteady hitching of hips, and soft gasps. There were never thank you’s or how are you’s after, but there were tightly twined fingers and heads pressed together on one pillow while falling asleep.

 

  

 

“Come here, son,” Ygraine calls softly to Arthur, who doesn't need to be asked twice. Arthur sinks onto the sofa, leaning into her embrace. She starts scratching the back of his head in gentle circles and Arthur closes his eyes, sighing contentedly. It’s been a fantastic day, but also exhausting -- physically and emotionally. The weight of his mum’s arm over his shoulder and the floral smell of the perfume she’s been using for as long as he can remember gives Arthur the comfort he didn’t realise he’s really missed.

While neither athletes nor coaches are required to stay at the Olympic Village, having been assured by organisers that the village will be the highest-security facility for the games, the Pendragons had opted to stay within the protected zone. Uther and Ygraine’s two-bedroom apartment is a far more posh arrangement than Arthur’s very basic room in the tower, where he adamantly chose to stay with the rest of the team. Still, Uther had pulled all the strings to ensure that Arthur didn’t share it with a roommate like everyone else.

Having traveled around the world with Arthur, working as his manager, Ygraine has extensive experience living out of suitcases and knows how to make any hotel room not just livable, but comfortable. It’s brilliant, but Arthur refuses her fussing. He has so little energy by the end of the day that he doesn’t care about any of the extra blankets, or a tea kettle, which she insists on bringing anyway. As long as his bed is not made of bricks, he falls asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow.

“Mum, ‘ve gotta go back,” he mutters into her shoulder, and he’ll go, in a minute, he swears.

“Want some warm milk?” Ygraine asks, not helping his resolve.

He hesitates only for a moment and nods. Ygraine carefully redistributes Arthur’s weight and gets up, letting him faceplant into the warmth of the sofa’s cushion. “Easy, easy, sweetheart. Stretch now,” she instructs, tapping his shoulder.

Arthur groans. He already has one coach. “‘M fine. I’ve physical therapy soon.” He raises his head. “Where’s Dad?”

Ygraine looks out of the kitchen. “Checking in on Gaius. He didn’t look well when we saw him this morning. Stubborn man.”

Arthur nods into the cushion. Gaius, an old family friend and trusted physician, has not only been seeing to Arthur’s heath since he was first brought into the pool at the ripe age of six months, he’d been treating Uther way before Arthur’s father made his first Olympics. Gaius was getting too old to travel but refused to hear about retirement.

“Here you go,” Ygraine says. The sound of glass clacking on the hard surface next to Arthur startles him out of slumber.

Arthur grudgingly pushes himself into an upright position, rubbing his face. His mother sits next to him again. He picks up his milk with a, “Hmmm. Yesss,” and takes a big sip.

Ygraine smiles fondly.

“Your father and I are very proud of you, Arthur.”

Arthur hums. “Had to kick it up a bit in my second meet today, but I’m happy with the time I made.”

“You’ve been throwing your right shoulder a little,” his mother comments with concern, knowing him and his moves no less than Uther himself or the coach assistant.

Arthur agrees. “It’s a bit tender. I was going to talk to Gaius.”

“See that you do,” Ygraine advises. “Two races tomorrow. Then the day next. No one is going to gift it to you.”

She sounds so much like his father that Arthur smiles. He pats her arm. “I've got it, though. You shouldn’t worry.”

Ygraine’s expression softens. “I know you’ve got it. God knows how hard you’ve worked. I just wanted…” She sighs. “Just remember, no matter the outcome, I’ll still be proud of you.”

Arthur chuckles. “A bit more confidence wouldn’t hurt, Mum.” 

Ygraine doesn’t respond, growing very quiet.

“What?” he asks, stopping mid-sip. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to get rid of his milk mustache, which must’ve been there, and leans closer for her to check it. “All gone now?” 

She doesn’t smile in return, but gets this strange look on her face. It’s the _Mum_ look, pensive yet knowing. Not the ‘you’re-in-trouble-son’ look, but the ‘I-think-we-need-to-talk’ one. Arthur isn’t a big fan of either.

Ygraine fixes her rings, admiring them for a moment, and folds her hands on her lap.

“Right. What?” Arthur asks with resignation. Might as well face it.

Ygraine contemplates something for another moment before asking, gently, “Are you all right, Son?”

Arthur frowns. “Why are you asking?”

She rubs the tip of her chin with the back of her fingers, her gaze fixed on him. “Have you talked to Merlin today?”

Arthur places his glass on the coffee table, straightens up. Says, “Mum. I don’t think that…” The rest of the answer doesn’t come to him right away. He swallows. “No, but of course I know he didn’t do that well today.”

Ygraine nods slowly. “He didn’t. Not very like him, though, is it?”

Arthur winces, but agrees, “No, it’s not.”

“And you couldn’t find a moment to find him and ask why?”

Arthur gazes at the ceiling with the longing of a person invited to a party when no one has told him there’ll be no booze. He fixes his stare at the large crack running from the lighting fixture all the way to the window. This is a brand-new building, so that can’t be a good sign, he thinks idly.

Ygraine brings him back. “Arthur.”

Suppressing a heave, he faces her. “Do _you_ know why?”

She levels him with a solemn look. “Yes. I spoke with Hunith an hour ago.”

Arthur shifts. Despite his two good races today, love from fans, and favourable comments from the press, the uneasy feeling hasn’t stopped nagging him since this morning. He didn’t forget about Merlin’s defeat, he just couldn’t figure out what to do with the news. If it were even a few weeks ago, Arthur’d probably approach him to at least offer a few conciliatory words, teammate to teammate. Today, he doubts Merlin would want to hear it.

“What happened?” he asks.

Reluctantly, Ygraine shares, “Merlin and his father came to blows this morning.”

Arthur exhales and shakes his head. “Aw, so what. That’s nothing new.”

His mother searches his face, her brows pulling together. “No, this is different.”

Arthur sees it in her eyes -- a deep concern, real dismay. “Mum, what happened?”

Ygraine chews on her lip before speaking again. “I wish you talked to Merlin. This is private, Arthur, but...” She looks at him apologetically. “I think it concerns you a great deal.”

Arthur runs a hand through his hair. “I know Balinor hates me. And he hates Dad even more. I’ve still no clue why. Are you ever gonna tell me?” He looks at Ygraine quizzically.

“Well. It's not something your father likes to bring up, but...” Ygraine clasps her hands together. She tsks. “On the night before their Medley relay in Montreal, your father caught Balinor giving himself an injection.”

“Oh hell,” Arthur gasps.

“Sort of,” Ygraine agrees. “Uther confronted him, Balinor told him to sod off. They ended up in a fist fight.”

Arthur’s anger flares on behalf of his father. “So Uther was removed from the team because he caught Balinor cheating? What kind of bollocks is that?”

“The injection was nothing more than a shot of glucosamine for Balinor’s flared-up knee. He didn’t want Uther to think he had a weakness. Too competitive, you see,” Ygraine explains. “Both overreacted, both paid the price. Neither forgot. Raising talented sons who took after them didn’t help the matters.”

“But that’s--” Arthur can’t wrap his head around it. “I don’t know how to help that. I’ve done nothing, except for being good in the pool. And Merlin is really good, too. _Really_ good. So, what does Balinor want from me? To stop competing?” Arthur stares at his mom, recalling Balinor’s over-the-top hostility and Merlin’s resigned face this morning. Merlin wouldn’t even look at Arthur anymore. Arthur starts to panic. “Is that it, Mum? Did Hunith tell you Merlin wants me to quit?”

A small, kind smile touches Ygraine’s lips. She reaches out to brush Arthur’s fringe away from his eyes. “Oh, my boy. However did you come to that conclusion? Merlin would never, ever do something like that, don’t you know? Nor would Hunith.”

“What is it, then?” Arthur exclaims. “What did Merlin and Balinor fight about? What did he say to Merlin that rattled him so much he couldn’t get it together for the race?”

Ygraine sighs. “I feel like I’m breaking every rule here, and I’m honestly so out of my depth... Look, I know you’re no longer speaking to Merlin; something happened between you two, and it breaks my heart. You were very close for years. Didn’t care what your fathers thought. You were…” She rubs her temple. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think that I… I know it’s none of my business... But you should know that Hunith and I are on your and Merlin’s side. I’m on your side. And if you’re worried about your father... Don’t. God knows he has a terrible temper. He can be an unbearable arse sometimes. Well -- often. But he loves you. That will never change. I hope you understand what I’m saying.”

Arthur thinks he is still not sure, but his pounding heart tells him, yes, he does.

He buries his face in his hands, and Ygraine softly touches his arm.

“Arthur, this is not me telling you how to live your life. This is me saying that I don’t care whether you’re an Olympic champion or an accountant; your career is your choice, not mine, as well as who you pick to be friends with. And more importantly, whether you choose to be single or bring home a girl or a… a boy--” Arthur groans, but she continues, squeezing his shoulder, “You should know that it doesn’t matter to me. I’m your mam and all I want for you is to be healthy and happy. And you know, from where I’m sitting, you haven’t been truly happy for some time now. Fix it. I think you know how.”

They stay silent for an extremely long time, Arthur shell-shocked and struggling to gather his thoughts, and Ygraine tactfully letting him take his time.

Finally, he’s able to meet her eyes. He straightens and clears his throat. “So, you knew.”

“We suspected,” Ygraine confirms.

“We?”

“Hunith and I. Do you know how many times we had to cover for you whenever you disappeared together? And all those Red-eyes between Belfast and Manchester in the past year… I’m your manager, remember? I see your bank statements every month.”

Arthur blushes, having nothing to say.

Ygraine ruffles Arthur’s hair lovingly. “Honestly, you boys were all sorts of obvious. I mean, to those who wanted to pay attention. I actually have to thank you.”

Arthur raises his brow.

“Because of you two, Hunith and I became great friends. I love that woman.” Ygraine smiles.

 “Ah. Well, yeah.” Arthur nods absentmindedly, his brain still snagged on what she had said earlier. “So Merlin… ”

“Came out to his father today,” Ygraine tells him, “and I really think he could use his best friend right about now.”

 

 

On his way out, Arthur checks his phone, his hands shaking. 

There are tons of alerts, articles covering Arthur’s advancement to finals and Merlin’s devastating performance taking up the majority of the news in his feed. Uncharacteristically for Merlin, there are only two posts from him in the past twenty-four hours. One is an Instagram dated late last night of a folded white towel with a rainbow-coloured Olympic rings symbol, Merlin’s red Great Britain swim cap and goggles resting on top of it. The caption is: “My journey. My pride.” Arthur’s breath hitches. He opens the second posting alert -- a tweet by Merlin this afternoon that leaves Arthur choked up.

It says: _This is it._ _I’m out._

Arthur goes on Merlin’s Twitter. The outpouring support and sympathy for Merlin in replies is overwhelming. Most of them praise their idol, their _#MerMerlin_ , urge him to stay strong, not give up and believe in himself, that the games aren’t yet over -- he has three more events. Scrolling through the long feed full of emojis, exclamation marks, and words of inspiration, only a few, truly just a handful, of the replies show that at least some of the followers had actually clued in.

One of them asks: _Did you just?!.._

And another beneath it, in response: _That’s what I want to know! If so, @realMerMerEmrys, remember, you’re not just one of us. You’re one of MANY. Stay an inspiration. Stand proud._

Arthur trips over the rug in the hallway and throws his hand out for support against the wall. If someone sees him like this, breathing shallow and sweaty, they’ll probably think he’s having a panic attack. They wouldn’t be far from the truth.

It takes him quite some time to gather himself together and finally go outside.

Fresh air helps, still, Arthur’s so shaken up, his stomach in knots, the last thing he feels like is talking to anyone or being kneaded, pulled, or even simply touched by physio. He needs space, some time to himself, but when did he have such a luxury last time? He has to go see Gaius.

Before entering the facility, he pauses, because no matter his distress, there’s one important thing he has to do. He unlocks his phone with intent as it starts ringing. Seeing the caller ID, Arthur groans.

“Yes, Father,” he answers, doing his darndest to keep his voice even.

Uther goes straight to the point, as always. “Gaius is unwell.”

“Yes, mam mentioned you were checking on him. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing too bad. Sciatica. He needs a few sessions of acupuncture and rest, that’s all.”

“I see.” Although it’s a relief to hear, Arthur needs a new plan. He sobers up. “I can run through a few routines myself tonight. Stretches, light weights, warm up. I should be all right.”

“No,” Uther says. “Tomorrow’s too important. I was watching your last race. You were throwing your right shoulder. Why didn’t you mention to me that it bothered you?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Because it’s not a big deal?” After spending 6-7 hours a day practising without breaks for months, _years,_ Arthur’s so used to pushing his body over its limit, he doesn’t remember the last time he was pain-free.

It’s the wrong answer, of course; Uther doesn’t stand for attitude.

“Are you taking this seriously, Arthur?” he asks quietly, but Arthur isn’t fooled by that soft tone. “Or maybe you decided there’s someone better than you to win?”

Arthur exhales loudly. “No, of course not! That’s not what I mean. You know I prefer to work with Gaius, you do too, but I’ll check with backup guy.”

“I don’t like him,” Uther says after a pause, sufficiently appeased, “but I don’t think there’s a choice. Gaius is making arrangements as we speak. Check with the front desk at the office when you go in. Call me immediately if there’s any trouble, you hear me?”

Arthur suppresses a sigh. “Yes, sir.”

Uther hangs up.

Arthur rubs his face. He switches apps, and after a short moment of contemplating, types: _\- Can we pls talk. Want to know ur okay -A._

He sends it before he loses courage and stares at the screen afterwards. A response doesn’t come.

 

 

Arthur had known this moment would come sooner or later and he’d have to face Gwaine Green, who'd joined the support staff under Gaius’s supervision earlier this year. Gwaine’s specifically assigned to work with Merlin, which means he always goes where Merlin goes. Arthur knows he’ll have to be professional and civil, even if Gwaine is… Arthur shakes the thought off.

He thinks he has a grip on himself but can’t help a scowl as soon as he enters the room.

In his early thirties, tall, with shoulder-length, shiny hair, and always-smiling dark eyes, Gwaine can be described as fit and cheeky. He’s attractive, but it makes Arthur’s stomach roll a bit when he thinks about the amount of time the guy spends with Merlin -- and Merlin spends with him. The pictures, _all_ the pictures of Merlin and his new physio that Merlin keeps posting, are a stab in Arthur’s chest every time. There’s never been anything incriminating in them, per se, but Arthur isn’t a fool. He knows when someone is trying to pull, and he could tell from the very first photo of Merlin and Gwaine together back in March that Gwaine had eyes for Merlin. Considering the long-distance not-really-a-relationship between Arthur and Merlin, Arthur convinced himself that it was just a matter of time.

When in early April a suggestive photo between Merlin and his physio was tweeted that proved Arthur’s prediction correct, Arthur did the only thing he knew how to protect himself.

Arthur glares at Gwaine, who of course has no idea what’s up with Arthur.

“Hello, Arthur. Let me read your treatment notes from Gaius.” Gwaine glances at him from his clipboard and points at a bench in the middle of the room. “Take a seat.”

Right. Arthur breathes out and walks to the bench.

“Here’s the towel. Take your kit off,” Gwaine says in the same no-nonsense tone and turns away to give Arthur privacy. As if he hasn’t seen him in nothing but Speedos before.

Arthur complies and lies face down in a practised move.

A couple of silent minutes later, Gwaine puts the clipboard away, sits on the stool, and rolls up to the bench.

“All right, Pendragon, is there something in particular you want us to work on today?”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Aren’t you a physio? Did you read the notes or not?”

There’s a pause.

Gwaine’s chair squeaks.

“Aren’t you in a mood,” Gwaine finally says. “Wasn’t it a good day for you?”

Arthur raises his head to glare at him. “As opposed to whom?” Might as well ask and see.

Gwaine raises his dark eyebrow. “There’s no competition in this room, Arthur. We’re all part of one team.”

Arthur snorts. Pressing his face back into the bench, he says, muffled, “Well then. Do what Gaius said.”

There’s another pause. Arthur hears Gwaine stand up. Open a drawer, another. More noises of something being stocked up on the table. Arthur peeks from under his arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready,” Gwaine says, connecting a power cord to an open box on the table. “Don’t worry, all sterilised.”

Arthur rises on one elbow. “What the hell is this?”

Gwaine turns to him. “Well, Arthur, we can do this two ways today. One, you admit that your right shoulder is a bit off and we ice it. That’s Gaius’s recommendation.” Gwaine taps the clipboard on the table. “Or, we do something different to take the edge of the stress off. Pain for pain, so to speak, but it’ll feel good, trust me.”

“And you’re going to use that?” Arthur waves at the tray inside the open box full of small round cups made of clear plastic with black tips on top of them.

“Cupping, yes. It helps to draw blood to the affected areas, reducing soreness and speeding healing of overworked muscles.”

“Is that even legal?” Arthur eyes the black suction pump Gwaine picks up from the tray next to the cups; it looks more like a torture device.

“Do I look like I want to lose my license to practise? Or be strangled by Uther Pendragon?” Gwaine asks with mirth in his crinkling eyes.

“I don’t know,” Arthur mutters. “This looks like bloody kinkery to me. Who knows what else you’re into.”

Gwaine laughs. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, Arthur, although I like the way you think.”

He winks and Arthur plops himself back down to hide his blushing cheeks. He feels Gwaine stepping next to him.

“Wait,” Arthur says, suddenly worried. He twists to look at Gwaine again, who already holds one plastic cup and a pump, ready to start. “Isn’t it going to leave those ugly round bruises on my back?” He’s seen it before on a few other athletes, but never up close. Gaius was never a fan of non-traditional healing methods and would never do this himself on anyone on the team. Gwaine is obviously pushing the envelope here.

“Yep, and your lower neck.” Gwaine grins. “They’ll fade, don’t worry, although for a while you’ll look like your latest Grindr conquest covered you in oversized hickeys.”

Settling down again, Arthur can’t help a chuckle. This is when another thought occurs to him, and it’s like a bucket of ice has just been thrown over his head.

He pulls himself up onto his elbows and knees, his towel sliding to the floor, exposing his bum in briefs. “Wait--” he rasps.

“Certainly,” Gwaine says, raising his hands and stepping back. “It’s entirely your choice, of course.”

Arthur shakes his head, sitting down. “No. No. I--” He looks up at Gwaine. “Have you ever done this on Merlin? On his back and… and his lower neck?”

Gwaine laughs. “Oh yeah, several times. He loved it. But Balinor threw a fit after Merlin tweeted a pic of me pointing at the mark. It was for laughs, of course.”

Arthur knows the pic Gwaine is talking about -- _that_ bloody photo, in which a pleased-as-punch Merlin was showing off a spot on his neck with a cluster of fading bruises, commenting: _Blame it on Gwaine!_

His heart seizes painfully in his chest. He needs to breathe in and out a few times. “So that wasn’t a hickey,” he whispers.

“Certainly not from me.” Gwaine says, chuckling. He stops abruptly, eyes narrowed on Arthur. “Ah,” he says.

Arthur drops his head between his shoulders, unable to move or even think.

After a long silence, Gwaine puts the cup and the pump back on the tray. “So, icing it is.”

When the freezing-cold bag hits Arthur’s shoulder, he flinches, but doesn’t look up. Warm, careful fingers massage his back, his other shoulder, and he closes his eyes, feeling utterly miserable and utterly beat. By his own sodding hand.

“Look,” Gwaine offers after a while, removing the ice pack, and rubs Arthur’s cold, thoroughly numb muscles. “Merlin and I are good mates. And I’m not going to lie, I wouldn’t say no if he were interested, but he’s not. Not even remotely. I’m old enough and been around enough to see when someone’s hurt and isn’t over it.”

For a brief moment, Arthur thinks about ignoring the direction this conversation has taken. He still has a chance to reject the notion that he’s remotely interested in what Merlin might feel towards Gwaine or anyone else, but he can’t do it.

He doesn’t know Gwaine, and truthfully, he doesn’t really care about Gwaine’s opinion, but he does know Merlin very well, and Merlin deserves much better than the way Arthur’s treated him.

“So, when Merlin said he wasn’t exactly single--” Arthur says, aware that Gwaine saw the press conference. The entire team did.

“Wasn’t talking about me,” Gwaine says firmly, meeting Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur nods. He slides off the bench and reaches for his clothes.

“I’m a nosy bastard, so I’m not going to say I don’t see what’s going on,” Gwaine says while Arthur is putting his trainers back on. He hands Arthur written instructions for a workout routine tonight at the gym and clicks off his pen. “It’s up to you to tell me to bugger off and we both can pretend this conversation never happened. Or...” Gwaine’s gaze is expectant, challenging.

Arthur folds the piece of paper given to him, considering the offered way out. He can walk out of here and they’ll carry on with business as usual. He has no doubt Gwaine will keep his word. Or…

Arthur raises his chin. “Or?”

Gwaine smirks in response. “Or I tell you that I grew to like Merlin a lot, and if you’re not serious about him, if you don’t mean it, then don’t think about going near him again. With time, he’ll get over you. All right?”

Arthur nods slowly and walks to the door. He pauses there, head down in thought, then turns around. He swallows his fear and asks, “And what if I’m not over him?”

Gwaine’s animated eyebrows jump up, conveying his surprise. He gives Arthur a measuring once-over, as if he’s noting a different version of him he didn’t expect to see. “Huh,” he says, his mouth stretching into a teasing grin. “Arthur Pendragon, look at you. You’re bolder than I thought. How does it feel to be honest with yourself?”

Arthur blushes horribly, averting his eyes. “It’s not-- I’m always--”

“Now, now.” Gwaine clicks his tongue. “Don’t you break the special moment we’re having here, princess.”

Arthur tries to glare at Gwaine, but there’s something in the physio’s expression, a mix of empathy and soft amusement without even a hint of arrogance Arthur's always seen in him, that Arthur can’t help but huff a laugh. “No one’s called me that before, thank you very much.”

“Stick around,” Gwaine suggests brightly. He sits down on the stool, considering Arthur for a moment with a keen eye.

“This is all new to you, isn’t it?” he asks, watching Arthur shuffling uncomfortably by the door.

Arthur nods hesitantly, knowing exactly what Gwaine means. Very new and scary, and still something that feels too big for his own skin. His cheeks warm again, he shrugs.

Gwaine hums and gestures to the bench again. “How about you come back here and we actually give my earlier suggestion a go?”

“Uh. You mean cupping?” Arthur checks.

Gwaine nods, smiling. “Nothing better than some well-trusted pain therapy for your overwhelmed muscles and clearly underwhelmed mind.”

“Oi,” Arthur protests, and Gwaine smirks in response, looking unapologetically entertained.

Arthur can’t let him have the last laugh. “All right,” he decides. He’s already made one major detour from his father’s protocol and feels no regrets about it. Why stop here. “Let’s do it.”

Once he’s appropriately naked and back on the bench, Gwaine immediately goes for his lower neck, latching the first cup there.

“So,” he asks Arthur, who’s wincing from rapidly increasing discomfort. Cupping definitely hurts, sufficiently stripping Arthur of his guard, which is what Gwaine is probably going for, the bastard. “Princess, would you like a few good tips on how to be a whoopsie?”

 

  

 

Several hours later, and no answer from Merlin, Arthur is restless. He has to dig around for the squad’s roster to find out Merlin’s room number. Merlin is staying five storeys below Arthur.

As Arthur exits the lifts, he smooths his hair, exhaling, and checks around the empty, well-lit hallway. It’s quiet, this late at night. Walking up to Merlin’s door, he catches himself tip-toeing and can’t help a pang of nostalgia followed by an ever-familiar anxiety pulling inside him, as if he’s doing something wrong, forbidden. It’s like he’s sneaking around to see Merlin all over again, and Arthur checks himself, shaking off the old demeaning habit of trying to be discreet.

While knocking on Merlin’s door, sweat breaks out under his armpits as he faces a brand new problem -- he realises he has no idea what he’s going to say. That he’s sorry? That he misses Merlin like mad? That he freaked out that time when Merlin mentioned the “b” word and it went downhill from there? They weren’t supposed to be _boyfriends_. What they had was a casual thing between friends, right? And while he knew that Merlin hated to be in the closet, Arthur wasn’t ready to admit that the closet was something Arthur himself was very much in. After all, who needed labels? Labels and hashtags were never Arthur’s thing.

Of course, it’s all bollocks. Excuses. That’s not what Merlin needs tonight; Ygraine was right.

Arthur knocks a little louder, shivering from nerves, and whispers, “Come on, Merlin. Don’t be a stubborn twat.”

The space behind the door remains silent, but Arthur isn’t going to give up now. “Fine,” he mutters, and, pulling out his mobile, dials Merlin’s number. He doesn’t hear Merlin’s mobile ringing inside the room, but it could be on vibrate or silent.

After several rings, the call goes to voicemail, which Arthur isn’t interested in, so he keeps re-dialing until Merlin finally picks up. There are still no signs of life behind the door to Merlin’s room. Is he even there?

“Hullo?” Arthur says, met with someone clearing their throat on the other end. “Merlin? It’s Arthur. Just open the door, okay? We need to talk.”

The grunt in response doesn’t sound like Merlin at all.

“Listen to me,” a deeper, older voice -- Balinor’s -- says, momentarily robbing Arthur of speech. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing calling him, but I’m going to say it just once. Forget this number, and stay away from Merlin. My son has nothing to say to you.”

Arthur finds his voice. “I have something to say. Let me speak to him.”

“What for? So you can twist his mind some more?”

Arthur shakes his head, although Balinor can’t see him. “What are you talking about? I never--”

Balinor interrupts him. “You think I never noticed how Merlin trailed you like a puppy and you encouraged it? Was it Uther’s idea?”

Arthur balks. “Uther’s idea?”

“To make my son distracted,” Balinor says. “Make him idolise you. So you could tame him and push him out of your spotlight.”

“What. How can you-- I’d never--” The insult stuns Arthur. Is this what Merlin thinks of him too? The thought of this possibility hurts beyond words. Arthur leans against the door and slides to the floor. It steadies him in the moment, and he says, quiet but firm, “It was never like that. Merlin is the strongest person I know.”

“Bloody right he is,” Balinor says harshly. “I raised him this way -- to be honest and proud. That’s who he is today. And that’s who he’ll be tomorrow. You? That’s a big if.”

Arthur plunges his hand into his hair, twisting it. “Balinor, please, let me talk to Merlin.”

“You know,” Balinor interrupts him again, more pensive this time. “My son had refused to name names, said there’s no one, but I’m not bloody blind, even if my wife thinks so. It’s a Pendragon thing, isn’t it? You have a gift for messing up our lives; it’s like never-ending hell.” 

“Maybe I’m trying to do something about it,” Arthur says defiantly. In his heart, he knows Merlin and he are not like their fathers, although tonight, Arthur finds a new respect for this part of Balinor -- for his unwavering pride in his son.

“I know what’s best for him; you don’t have the first idea,” Balinor says defensively.

“With all due respect, sir,” Arthur argues. “It’s between Merlin and me to figure out.”

Balinor grunts, pauses. “Well, that won’t be tonight. And if you mean what you say, you’ll give my son his space tomorrow. He has a race to win.”

If Uther were here, he’d smack Arthur on the head for being a pushover, for allowing anyone, let alone Balinor, to assume Arthur would ever hand a victory over to someone, but that’s not what Arthur cares about as the call ends.

“Right,” he says without protest.

Pushing himself up to his feet again and wincing from the attack of pins and needles in his legs, Arthur realises that Balinor’s jabs don’t really matter. He may have lost this argument, but might’ve gained something more important instead.

 

__

 

It’s well past midnight and Arthur has to be up at six in the morning. His first meet’s check-in is at ten, yet he has trouble settling in bed. His body is exhausted, but his new bruises are itching and his thoughts are restless, cycling over the events of the past twenty-fours, then sending him back in time a year, then two, then five. It’s impossible to fall asleep in a state like this.

With a sigh, Arthur picks up his iPad from the nightstand and turns it on. He watches a few YouTube videos, starting with the latest clips from the Olympics, follows the recommendation to watch “20 Most Viewed Videos on YouTube of All Time”, then “Top 10 Most Viral Videos of All Time”, then switches to “Top 10 Saddest YouTube Videos”, and somehow, unbeknownst to him, ends up on “Most Popular Nail Art Design of 2016”. Arthur has to draw a line somewhere, so he switches to Google news and reads a few headlines, his eyes snagged on the title: “Bring on the Great when the Greatest is Down” with a picture of a frowning Arthur and smiling Merlin at their press conference as the thumbnail. Arthur doesn’t think he’s going to like the article, but of course can’t resist clicking on it anyway.

It’s practically an essay and there’s nothing new at first. All about “... _competitors since a young age_...”,“... _old family feud..._ ”, “... _Pendragon with better times, but Emrys is a crowd favourite_ …”

The article is peppered with pictures from archives, but it doesn’t stop there. Arthur keeps skimming through. It dives into “... _catastrophic fail at the 200m Butterfly semifinals, leading to Emrys’ disqualification_ …” and describes “... _obvious tension between the young men, who used to be friendly before_ …” as a serious blow to “... _the_ _athletes’ die-hard fans, who are convinced there’s more going on than meets the eye, and we have some evidence to show they’re not wrong._ ” 

There’s a helpful collage of candid photos of Merlin and Arthur throughout the years, and the first few are nothing to write home about -- both boys at their early-career meets, pictured during various events. In one they’re getting ready on their blocks; in another, they’re shaking hands on the podium. In the third, they’re snapped having an animated chat in the background while their fathers glare and scowl at each other in the front. Arthur chuckles at the comedy of the captured moment. He stops chuckling once he clicks through a couple more photos and opens a picture of himself fixing Merlin’s swim cap before their meet and Merlin grinning at him from under his dark lashes. Arthur has no recollection of doing that, but the image doesn’t lie -- it’s them caught in a moment some would call private. Arthur looks about nineteen, the time when their closeness was just becoming a promise of something more.

The following photos show Arthur and Merlin growing progressively closer: hugging in one after a meet, a smirking Merlin whispering something to Arthur while Arthur’s laughing, his head thrown back, Arthur punishing a squirming Merlin with a noogie and looking extremely pleased.

To some, these stolen moments betray nothing more than silliness between two great friends with a genuine fondness for each other, until Arthur opens the last one. It’s a photo of Merlin on the stands, sitting behind Arthur. Arthur’s leaning against Merlin’s parted legs and is looking ahead at something, a line of concentration on his forehead, while Merlin stares at the back of Arthur's neck with such a lost, soft expression, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly parted, only a blind person wouldn’t see it for what it is. The fragility and intimacy of the moment is so intense between them, Arthur can’t take his eyes off the image, clutching the iPad with both hands. It’s too hot under the blanket, too uncomfortable. His mind is reeling. This was theirs, and someone had caught it and stole it from them. How dare they.

This is why Arthur never wanted to take pictures or show his face in any of Merlin’s posts, no matter how much Merlin pouted for him to agree. _This_ is why.

Deep down, Arthur knows that’s only partially true, but that’s not the point now. Arthur groans in the dark, quiet room. It’s a wonder they’re not surrounded by more gossip, which, as Arthur discovers, he’s very wrong about. He reads the comments section of another article, lost in the amount of exaltation and strange words that sound like a foreign language to him: 

_“...they’re magic together.”_

_“...my only OTP!”_

_“...never thought I’d indulge in RPF. But LORD do I love these two!”_

_“#Emdragon is CANON! I don’t care what anyone says!”_

_“Hey guys, check out thisssss.”_

Arthur knows better than to click the link in the comment but can’t help himself, and that’s how he stumbles on a bloody _Wiki_ page dedicated to Merlin and him as a _couple_. And although there’s an honest attempt to list their every meet and accomplishment, the tone of the site and underlying theme reveal an unfulfilled desire to see them not just in the same room, being friendly with each other, but _happy together._

It’s absolutely bonkers to Arthur. Why would anyone care what two mates are up to in their spare time? What is it with the public’s obsession of pairing people up? Does Merlin know of any of this? Of course, Merlin must know. He chose the life of a social-media celebrity; he probably receives similarly invasive comments from fans and followers all the time. Arthur cringes. Maybe Merlin didn’t choose _that_ part, and now, piecing together some of the conversations they’ve had in the past, Arthur thinks that maybe Merlin’s decision to constantly be in the public eye, exposing his daily life, has been his way to make sure that people saw it from Merlin’s point of view -- the real version of him.

With honesty comes judgement, something that Arthur has always had a hard time coping with. Hiding is easier. And here’s the truth. Arthur has been looking for millions of excuses: his love for sport, the importance of his career, his difficult relationship with his father, unrepentant prejudice from sponsors. All that was validation only to a degree. Merlin never expected from Arthur more than he could give. Merlin waited. Waited even after Arthur broke up with him without a real explanation. He’d been trying to reach out to Arthur and then came to him two nights ago to tell him, to give him a fair warning of what he was about to do. Merlin was probably scared to death.

Arthur kicks off his blanket and sits up, struggling to breathe through the wave of misery and shame crushing him. Merlin needed his support, and Arthur shut him down.

Arthur covers his face, shaking, understanding hitting him like a tonne of bricks. Of course Merlin knew what his fans were saying about them -- and the ramifications of his public coming out. Everyone would turn and point at Arthur, expecting him to do the same. Merlin would never do that to his best friend. That tweet was cryptic not because Merlin was afraid to be fully honest or lose the public’s support or sponsorships, but because he was still protecting his ex.

And.

 _Not exactly single_ , Merlin had said, leaving the door open a crack. Did it mean that despite Arthur being a complete and utter donkey arse, Merlin had still hoped?...

And with that, it’s becoming painfully clear to Arthur that if he has any chance to be with Merlin, he can no longer hide. There will be a media shitstorm, and even if Merlin ends up rejecting him, it’ll still be worth it to try. It’s time for Arthur to stop being so bloody scared and step into that spotlight.

 

_ _

_Rio, Day 4_

 

Uther watches Arthur all morning like a hawk. Breakfast, travel time, warm up, two interviews. There’s priceless look of fury on his father’s reddened face, eyes bugging out, a vein popping on his temple, as he hisses profanities at Arthur once he sees cup marks covering the back of Arthur’s neck, shoulders, and legs. Imminent threats are issued, Gwaine, Gaius, Arthur, and the universe in general named as deserving targets. Arthur is kind of over it, thinking he and his father will need to change some things up after these games. It’ll probably happen anyway once they have a talk Arthur has already started mentally preparing himself for.

“Wait until your mother sees this.” Uther uses his last weapon, seeing how unaffected Arthur remains throughout his father’s hissy fit.

“Oh, you got me,” Arthur teases.

Uther grumbles something else highly unflattering in his son’s direction, and doesn’t leave his side from that point, as if expecting Arthur to make a quick escape to a tattoo parlor next or something if Uther takes his eyes off him.

Arthur manages to distance himself using his standard trick -- Beats that are nearly the size of his head and blasting The Who. He pretends he doesn’t hear Uther raising his voice and moving around unless his father taps sharply on his arm, demanding attention. Uther always has something to say, giving his son insightful instructions as if Arthur hasn’t done his swim routine a thousand times.

Arthur had to force himself to eat in the morning and spent extra time during the warm up in the pool before he could feel like his body was finally on the same wavelength with his brain. Their meet is in twenty minutes, and he still hasn’t seen Merlin today. He rolls his shoulders, popping his jaw. He forces his bouncing knee to stop.

Uther grabs his shoulder and Arthur pulls one side of his Beats off, looking at his father with an arched brow.

“What’s with you today?” Uther asks, frowning. “Are you nauseous or something?”

Arthur makes an oblivious face. “No. I’m brilliant. Ready as I can be.”

“Yeah, all right.” Uther’s expression softens by a very marginal degree, but it’s something. He clears his throat, eyes flicking away. “Listen, son. You have this. You’ve trained hard. This is your day, okay?”

Arthur appreciates the support, he does, but his father, normally rough on the edges, showing a rare sentimental side of himself, throws Arthur off and he has to do something about it. He smiles, teasing, “Aw, man. Are you going all soft on me? Must be getting old.”

“Oh shut it,” Uther mutters and turns away.

There’s a whistle and announcement for the swimmers to gather in the swimming room. Uther pats Arthur’s shoulder a few times. “Off you go. Lane four, son. Get it.”

The best time in semifinals gives the best lane in the final meet. Arthur nods and pulls the hood of his robe up.

Entering the waiting room, he falters, his eyes instantly glued to Merlin sitting by the wall across the room. He’s also in a robe, eyes closed, listening to his music. Probably Celine Dion or something equally atrocious, knowing Merlin’s tastes. Cedric Cornelius, from Hungary, is up to his usual antics, dancing and shadowboxing in front of Merlin like a ten-year-old in a schoolyard.

Arthur takes a chair a few seats away. He doesn’t mean to watch Merlin, but he can’t help an occasional glance. Merlin stays still with the exception of his long fingers tapping a beat on his knee, a compulsive Morse code of sorts. Arthur knows the meaning of this. A dead-calm, ready-to-fight Merlin always keeps his hands resting between his thighs as he waits. Restless, incessant fingers are a sure tell-tale sign of a Merlin nervous out of his wits. Back in the day, to ease the tension, Arthur had known a way to help. He would whisper a filthy joke or make idiotic faces at Merlin while no one was close by. Not anymore.

Watching Merlin licking his dry lips and taking deep breaths, Arthur forgets about his own earlier turmoil for long enough to be jolted out of his thoughts by his name being called out to take his place for the race. Arthur rises to his feet and Merlin’s eyes snap open, meeting Arthur’s. Arthur reads nothing but dread there.

That’s not good.

Arthur tries to smile at him before leaving, and there’s a flicker of something in Merlin’s expression, a spark, but it’s so fleeting, the next moment Arthur isn’t certain if it was there at all.

Aside from a nod and a quick wave outside for the spectators, Arthur keeps his focus on the pool as he approaches it. The crowd goes mad when Merlin’s name is announced next and Merlin comes out of the waiting room, stopping at the lane next to Arthur’s. The rest of the swimmers join them one by one. A series of short whistles signals for athletes to take their kits off, followed by a long whistle indicating they should take their positions on the starting blocks.

Arthur’s heart picks up a beat. Here they go.

Disrobed and ready, Arthur turns around and comes to face to face with Merlin. His eyes flick over Arthur’s form, widening at the exposed purple marks. Arthur clears his throat. Yes, he might’ve defended his decision with his father, but if Arthur’s honest with himself, which he tries to be, he’s surprised he actually let Gwaine do the cupping the night before. Although, seeing Merlin’s dazed expression that looks a lot like awe, Arthur decides that it was worth it. Let the bloody press and everyone else talk.

A small noise comes out of Merlin’s mouth, but he quickly shuts it, turning away, and nearly trips over himself on his way to the starting platform, where after a few half-hearted shakes of his arms and legs, he halts mid-motion and stares ahead at the pool with a frown, as if he’s seeing it for the first time. 

Arthur makes a few wide moves by his own block to test his range of motion one more time and get his blood going before the race. He’s eyeing Merlin as he goes through his routine. Someone yells, “Go Emrys!”, and it thankfully startles Merlin out of his stupor. He rushes through his stretches guiltily. There’s none of the usual precision in Merlin’s motions, no ritualistic _step-left, step-right,_ and that ridiculous butt-wiggle he does before stepping up on the block that Arthur knows so well. Arthur wishes he wasn’t as acutely aware of his opponent, but it’s impossible not to pay attention when it’s so apparent that Merlin is scared of the race and too distracted by his own fear to get himself in check. He’s about to flank this meet too -- and that just won’t do.

This is 100m Breaststroke, his signature event. Merlin will hate his life forever, will hate Arthur forever if he doesn’t qualify for another finals. Then, they’ll end up like Uther and Balinor -- lost friendship, lost opportunities, lost time -- two miserable, resentful, old sods. Arthur can’t let that happen, because for his next thirty years, he has other, much better plans for them.

He watches Merlin jump up and down in front of his block, trying to shake off his nerves.

Arthur steps onto the block, and turns to Merlin, who’s also climbing up, briefly showing off the expanse of his broad back and arms, sharply curved with muscles. Merlin straightens up, rolls his shoulders one more time, squaring his jaw, lean, taut, willowy. _Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous,_ Arthur thinks with admiration, at the worst possible time, but then, when could he ever stop being a total tool when it came to Merlin?

“Merlin!” Arthur calls, at the risk of getting reprimanded by the officials but too caught in the moment. “Hey.”

Startled in the middle of fixing his cap in place, Merlin whips his head in Arthur’s direction, his mouth open in surprise. Arthur can’t see Merlin’s eyes behind goggles, but he’s sure they are the size of saucers.

Arthur smiles and sticks his tongue out at him. “Race you!” he dares him and winks, pulling his goggles over his eyes.

Merlin gapes at him for another beat, then snorts, and flies Arthur two fingers discreetly as he assumes starting position. Challenge accepted.

 

  

 

They don’t beat records this time. Arthur finishes in the lead, windmilling through the race with one thought in mind. The better he swims, the better are Merlin’s chances. They’ve always been good at challenging one another. Merlin comes in third, his expression falling when he sees his placement on the scoreboard.

“You got it,” Arthur says, hanging on the lane divider, catching his breath. “It’s good time, Merlin.”

Merlin spits water out of his mouth, scowling a little. Buoying near the wall, he squints at the numbers on the board. “Bollocks,” he mutters, relief mixed with disappointment spreading over his features once the results are tallied for the final lineup.

Arthur will take lane four like he wanted, and Merlin has lane seven, but they’re both in.

Merlin exhales slowly and sags against the wall, looking drained.

“C’mere,” Arthur murmurs, leaning over the divider towards Merlin, and seeing Merlin’s defiant face, adds an even softer, “please.”

Gingerly, Merlin steps into Arthur’s hug. He’s warm, muscles and heat rippling under Arthur’s hands, his breath hitching when Arthur’s lips almost touch Merlin’s jaw. With cameras rolling all around them, thirsty for their every move and reaction, there’s no question, this will be the moment plastered all over the mags tomorrow. Arthur doesn’t give a toss.

“What was that shite right before, Emrys?” he asks in his ear. “Did Cedric accidentally kick you in the head or something?”

Merlin’s shoulders shake with a silent chuckle. “Please. He’s still looking for his trunks on the bottom of the pool.”

They laugh openly now and part.

Moving away, Merlin meets Arthur’s gaze briefly. “I’ll beat you tomorrow, you know,” he promises in a low, serious voice.

Arthur smirks. “Don’t hold your breath too long. You might die prematurely.”

“Sod off, Arthur,” Merlin suggests over his shoulder and starts pulling himself up.

Arthur is not offended. “Hey,” he calls again, following Merlin out. They stop to grab their clothes. “I’ll see you later?”

Wrapping himself into the robe, Merlin tenses and looks at him, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“Keep your mobile on you tonight, all right?” Arthur asks, reaching for his towel. His hands are shaking a little as he wipes himself off, but then, he’s just finished an important race and gave it all. “All right?” he asks again, this time more insistent, giving Merlin a hopeful smile.   

Merlin frowns, his bottom lip between his teeth for a thoughtful moment. He huffs, shrugs, and walks off.

 

 

 _\- In my room, but knackered,_ Merlin texts in response to Arthur around ten in the evening. _Can it wait for some other day, whatever it is?_

Arthur can’t blame Merlin for being guarded, but no, this definitely can’t wait. He retraces his path from the previous night, except this time, as he exits the lifts on Merlin’s floor, his steps are a lot more sure.

Merlin pokes his head through a crack in the door, his hair sticking out in all directions. He glares at Arthur. “Really?”

Arthur loses some of his confidence, his smile sliding. “I texted. To talk.” 

Merlin sighs. “I’m not alone, Arthur.”

“If it's your father--”

“It’s not.”

It’s like a swift kick in the gut, a punch right into the solar plexus so painful, Arthur’s wondering how he’s still standing. Was Arthur that delusional and Merlin not lying -- has he indeed moved on?

“Oh,” Arthur says, a heave of nausea washing over him. “Right. I’ll just then--” He points over his shoulder weakly.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “I have a roommate, you clotpole.”

“Oh,” Arthur repeats, swallowing, with a bit more life in his voice. He shifts from foot to foot. “Um… We can, then-- In my room-- I don’t have anyone,” he babbles.

Merlin gives him a half-exasperated, half-amused look. “ _Of course,_ you’re not sharing your room. Why is that even surprising?”

“Who’s there, Mer?” a guy asks from inside the room. Arthur doesn’t recognise the voice.

There’s a loud yawn and approaching shuffle. The door opens wider, revealing a bloke in purple boxers behind Merlin. Arthur doesn’t know why he finds the purple boxers funny, but he does.

“Who are you?” The bloke squints at Arthur with disgruntled suspicion. “Oh wait. You’re what’s-his-face. The swimmer. What are you doing here?”

“Oh.” Merlin bites his lip, eyes searching Arthur’s. “He’s… Um...”

“I--” Arthur’s too taken aback by Will’s openly unimpressed reaction to come up with a plausible excuse. “Uh...”

So Merlin tries to deflect, waving. “This is Will, by the way. Field and track. He’s from my hometown.”

“That’s right,” Will confirms. “We’re not posh. Working class.”

“Stop it, Will,” Merlin mutters, kicking Will’s shin.

“Oi, that’s my starting foot, you wanker,” Will cries out, shoving him in the shoulder, which pushes Merlin forward, the door hitting Arthur’s trainer. 

They’re about to start a tussle and that’s not what Arthur came here for. He coughs. “Listen, Will,” he starts, then adds firmer, seeing that Will is more interested in making a rope out of the side of Merlin’s shirt, “I need to talk to Merlin. Now.”

That gets their attention again. Arthur flicks his gaze from Will to Merlin. “Please.”

“Why?” Will asks, teasingly. He leans into Merlin with his whole body, pressing him into the edge of the door, and Merlin grunts, bumping him back. “I said quit it.”

Will makes a face, his rambunctiousness finally fading. “Seriously? You can’t talk tomorrow?” 

Merlin shuffles from foot to foot, just staring at Arthur. Arthur gives Will a challenging look.

“Oh for--” Will rolls his eyes. “You want me to leave?”

Neither Merlin nor Arthur answer, because it should be obvious by now.

“Yes, fine.” Will sighs dramatically. “I’ll go. Whatever. But I’ll be back in thirty, so whatever you need to discuss, do it fast... Wait.” He pauses to assess Arthur with renewed suspension, then slowly looks at Merlin, like he’s trying to X-ray his brain. “You’re not planning to shag, are you? Yikes!”  

“Will!” Merlin balks, his scandalised expression genuine.

“Don’t _Will_ me,” his roommate says. “I’m not the one having some secretive business with a fit bloke at arse-o’clock at night.” 

“I didn’t invite him!” Merlin protests, glaring at uncomfortably shuffling Arthur.

“Yet, I’m the one being kicked out of my own room. Say thanks I don’t have a meet tomorrow,” Will grumbles, retreating into the room. “Otherwise you’d be out of luck and blue-balled.” He laughs there at his own joke.

Arthur’s well acquainted with the feeling and tries not to squirm. Merlin looks equally uncomfortable, and for some reason it pleases Arthur. He gives Merlin an uncertain smile.

Will appears again, dressed in his track suit and less disheveled. He pockets his mobile. “I’ll be over at Sefa’s. If she opens the door. If not… Ugh.” He squeezes between Merlin and Arthur. “Thirty minutes, you bastards. Put a sock on the door knob or something.” He smirks at them. “Aaand -- Go!” He pushes Arthur into the room.

The door shuts behind them, leaving Arthur flushed chest to chest with Merlin, Merlin’s hand on Arthur’s arm.

“Um…” Arthur says, taking a small step back. He clears his throat.

The light in the room behind Merlin is more like a soft glow, Merlin’s face half-hidden in shadow, and Arthur can’t see his expression well.

“Why are you here?” Merlin asks quietly, staying perfectly still.

If only it were that simple to explain, but Arthur has to start somewhere.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Merlin’s shoulders hunch up. “For?”

So many things. _For being a coward._ _For letting my father get in my head. For thinking that strangers’ opinion had more weight than my best friend’s. For being a jealous prick for no good reason._

_For letting you down. Most of all for letting you down._

“I messed up,” he says. “I pushed you away.”

“You did,” Merlin says. “Kind of a shite thing to do.”

Arthur hangs his head. “I know.”

“But I know now, you were scared,” Merlin says, his fingers losing their grip on Arthur’s arm. “I’m sorry I tried to push you into something you didn’t want.”

Arthur frowns. “What?”

Merlin sighs and drops his hand. “I mean. You know. We worked, when it was just us and the race. Kind of like our own bubble, right? It was good.”

Arthur gets what Merlin is saying and nods, smiling wistfully. It was.

“You probably wanted it to always be like that,” Merlin wonders.

“I wasn’t trying to hide you, Merlin,” Arthur says, somewhat defensive.

“Right,” Merlin agrees. “But you didn’t like it when being silent by default became not enough for me.”

“It was easier for you. You always knew who you were,” Arthur tries to explain.

Merlin tilts his head. “I knew who you were. And I liked the guy, even if he was an arsehole sometimes.”

Arthur huffs. No argument from him.

They stay silent for a long beat.

“So, what now?” Merlin asks. He turns to lean his back against the wall, still not inviting Arthur into the room. His face is no longer in the shadows and he looks dog-tired, pale. “Friends? Acquaintances? What are we now? I mean, the way I riled you up in front of the press last time… That was petty of me and I don’t ever want to be like that to you again.” He rubs his face. “I can’t bear to be like our fathers, Arthur. I’d rather we don’t talk at all, if it comes to that.”

A protest surges out of Arthur. “No. Merlin.”

Merlin frowns. “No what? They’re not going to change. I can’t change who I am, either. Even for you. I’m sorry.” His Adam’s apple jumps up and down, eyes wide and dark, glistening. “I was mad at you at first. So mad. It sucked that you had all these very important things going on for you and I was a distraction. I had my goals and dreams too, you know? I knew how to push myself and reach them, all right?”

“Merlin.” Arthur reaches out to touch him, but Merlin pulls away with a soft protest in his throat. Arthur drops his hand, hurt.

“But you were right,” Merlin says after a heavy pause. “It couldn’t have worked out between us. And that’s okay.” His voice cracks, the next words coming out thicker. “I’m not mad at you anymore. I’ll be all right, and of course so will you.”

Arthur very much doubts it, at least for himself, and if he’s this miserable for Merlin, he thinks selfishly, how is it fair that Merlin won’t feel the same for him? The problem is, it’s not something Arthur would say out loud, his opportunity to argue Merlin’s ridiculous sentiment missed.

Merlin face falls a little at Arthur’s silence. He crosses his arms around his midsection, his shoulders hunching forward like he’s trying to protect himself from a kick.

“I think,” he says quietly, staring down at his bare feet, “it’ll be better if you keep a good distance from me from now on. No associations. Save yourself from the rumourmill and Ygraine from the PR nightmare. So um…” His smile when he looks up at Arthur again breaks Arthur’s heart. He never wants to see this kind of pain on Merlin’s face. “Meet you at the race?”

“Merlin.” Arthur exhales loudly. “It’s not about the race.”

Merlin huffs. “It’s always been about the race. I realised it today, right before our meet. All these people there, cameras, the clock. Who am I supposed to beat? You? Myself? My father’s expectations?” He grimaces. “I think I’m getting too deep this late in the evening. Nevermind it, okay?” He gives Arthur an apologetic twitch of his mouth. “See? I told you I was knackered.”

“Your mum told my mother. I saw your tweet. Merlin, I _know_ ,” Arthur blurts out.

Merlin doesn’t look surprised, just tired. He rubs his forehead, sighing. “I see. Well, good. I tried to tell you myself. More than once.”

“No, I know,” Arthur assures him.

He lets out a loud gust of air, needing a moment to get his thoughts together, because it hasn’t been an easy day for him either. And this here, being so close to Merlin after so long and trying to explain something he’s still struggling with himself, is nearly an impossible feat, but Arthur’s going to give it his best.

“Can you just, like…” He stumbles over his words. “Let me try to explain?”

He inches closer to Merlin, needing his proximity, the reassuring familiarity of his presence, with Merlin’s eyes on him, wary but attentive, and very, very quiet.

Arthur inhales through his nose. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I was an utter twat for refusing to listen. That was…” He groans, shaking his head. “I regret many things. I let you down. But please know that I’m glad you did what you did. I should’ve been there with you.”

Merlin eyes him skeptically. “All right. I appreciate the support.”

“No,” Arthur pleads. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. I should’ve been there, not _for_ you, but _with_ you. All right?”

The change of expression on Merlin’s face from incredulous to confused, then to a soft reverie, is something Arthur never wants to forget.

Merlin licks his lips. “What are you saying, Arthur? My last few days have been really weird, so I might be a bit slow on the uptake.”

Arthur steps into Merlin’s space, not taking his eyes off him. “I’m saying I’m no longer confused or lost. Or whatever shite people say about someone like me. If you’re out, I’m out with you. Your journey is my journey.” He winces. “That sounds like utter bollocks, I realise. But I swear I mean it.”

Merlin looks at him for the longest time, completely silent.

“Please, Merlin, say something,” Arthur begs.

Merlin blinks a few times, his gaze regaining focus. He shakes his head, letting out a shaky, soft laugh. “Christ, Arthur, if you only knew how many times I’ve imagined this conversation.”

Arthur smiles. “You did? And?”

“It hasn’t always gone like this in my mind, but I have to say…” Merlin’s eyes drawn with rapt focus on a spot on the side of Arthur’s neck where muscle meets clavicle. He brings a hand to brush his thumb over the bruise, a careful but proprietary press on the skin, that makes Arthur shiver and hiss. “This particular scenario is definitely in my top three, but it’s not my favourite,” Merlin confides, his gaze sliding to Arthur’s mouth.

When Merlin’s hand moves into the hair at Arthur’s nape, fingers twisting in, no longer careful, Arthur’s mind skitters and threatens to come to a full stop. He gasps, going practically cross-eyed just from being touched by Merlin this way, all promises and renewed hope.

“What is your favourite?” he croaks, gasping when Merlin tugs him closer.

Merlin’s parted lush lips are close but not nearly close enough to where Arthur wants them to be, and Merlin taunts him further, his low voice next to Arthur’s ear. “It involves a lot of groveling, Arthur. An obscene amount. Your hot mouth that I haven’t stopped thinking about, and my very hard cock. Prime wank material for me, and oh, have I wanked.”

Arthur can’t wait another second. With a groan he sinks into Merlin, his impatient hands grasping at his shoulders, sliding down Merlin’s arms, his fingers tracing the familiar map of muscles there, and coming to a halt at Merlin’s hips. Everything is in the way: Merlin’s long shirt, his pyjama bottoms, and Arthur fumbles to get around, under, and in, his fingers shaking so much, he ends up tugging and pulling on Merlin’s clothes fruitlessly, growling in frustration.

“Wait, wait,” Merlin whispers, creating a small distance between them. “Arthur.” He takes Arthur’s face between his hands, quiet firmness in his touch and cautious hope in his voice when he asks, “Are you sure this is what you want?” Merlin’s gaze studies Arthur’s expression in search of something, an important clue.

Arthur fists Merlin’s shirt on either side to pull him close again. “Merlin, I’m not walking out of here tonight without you being absolutely clear on how _not single_ from now on you are,” he promises, leaning to brush his lips against Merlin’s.

Merlin blinks. “I honestly have no idea what you just said,” he says with a confused smile, his hands sliding onto Arthur’s shoulders.

Confusion is exactly the opposite to what Arthur’s trying to accomplish here, and because he loses all filter when Merlin pouts like he’s doing right now, he blurts out, “I sort of came out to your physio yesterday.”

Merlin laughs softly. “What?” He stops laughing when Arthur remains quiet and still. He stares at Arthur, comprehension slowly softening his features. “You… Do you mean Gwaine? Of course you mean Gwaine.” His eyes flick to the mark on Arthur’s neck. “What did you tell him?”

Arthur shrugs one shoulder. “That I have a permanent boner for you?”

Merlin gasps. “You did _not_ say that.” He laughs again at Arthur’s petulant expression, a much happier, lighter sound Arthur wants to live for.

“It’s the truth, so why would I lie?” Arthur counters, because absolutely, what can be more liberating than truth? Honesty can be addictive, he discovers, especially when Merlin gets _that_ kind of look in his eyes. The kind that makes Arthur’s mouth go instantly dry and heat pool low in his belly. 

The air between them tenses in sharp spikes. It reminds Arthur how it used to be: an intense, on the edge of desperate, pull between Merlin and him every time they had seen each other after a prolonged period of time. Later, once they broke up, Arthur was able to define what it was -- whenever they got together, there were no promises, no certainty for a repeat. A hook up. Arthur hates this word now.

Today is different. There’s no desperation between them this time or the feeling that they must hurry up and tumble into bed, attempts to undress properly abandoned quickly, in favour of exposing just enough skin necessary to get each other off. They’re used to hushing themselves -- another competition between them based on who can be quietest. This is the least of Arthur’s concerns now.  He wants Merlin so loud that he’ll lose his voice. Arthur doesn’t want them to rush.

He doesn’t want to wait any longer either. Shuffling them a step back, Arthur presses Merlin against the wall, keeping himself flushed against Merlin, seeking maximum contact with every part of their bodies. Arthur kisses the corner of Merlin’s gasping mouth, and Merlin moans. “Oh God.”

It’s unclear what Merlin’s prayer is about, but Arthur hopes it’s _this_ when he bites Merlin’s plump bottom lip, then licks into his mouth, kissing him with abandon. With his arms tightly looped around Arthur’s neck and his hips grinding insistently into Arthur’s, Merlin is all heat and loveliness, pushy and considerate all in one. This contradiction about his lover, if Arthur thinks about it, is exactly what fascinates and attracts him to Merlin. The months apart have only made it more apparent.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin gasps, once they fall apart, out of air.

“What do you need?” Arthur moves to suck a kiss on Merlin’s clavicle, his hand roaming down to cup Merlin’s arse.

“Please,” Merlin gasps louder. “Want your mouth. Make me come.”

Arthur groans into Merlin's neck, already aroused beyond belief, the thought of giving Merlin this pleasure, that Merlin touched himself to this fantasy, makes Arthur even harder.  He sinks to his knees, Merlin’s waiting erection springing out as soon as Arthur pulls his pyjama bottoms down. He looks up, meeting Merlin’s heavy-lidded gaze, dark and intense on Arthur. Merlin drags his hand through Arthur’s hair, guiding him to where he wants him. Arthur doesn’t need another invitation.

The moment Arthur’s lips wrap around Merlin’s silky tip, Merlin shudders, closing his eyes. “Jesus, Arthur,” he rasps, his hips hitching forward. “I won’t last long.”

Merlin has no idea what these words do to Arthur. The world falls away, Merlin’s begging a litany of gasps, peppered with both filthy and sweet promises, and Arthur resolves to make good on every one of them.  Somewhere between Merlin’s hot whispers of praise and the sharp tugs of his fingers on Arthur’s hair, Arthur finds himself keening and moaning while stroking his own erection, giving a blowjob Merlin’s unlikely to forget soon.

“Arthur, oh…” Merlin chokes out. “ Don’t stop, don’t stop… Oh god. I’m.... I’m close.” He pulls on Arthur’s hair, to signal his climax, but Arthur takes Merlin deeper, loving the broken sounds Merlin’s making coming down his throat. Arthur’s orgasm hits him only a few moments later, and it’s so good, he thinks he’ll go blind from pleasure.

“Are you okay?” Merlin asks Arthur, who’s catching his breath, slowly floating back to reality, his cheek pressed to Merlin’s warm thigh. Arthur _hm-m-ms,_ not capable of more at the moment.

Brushing his fingers against Arthur’s cheek, Merlin starts pulling his pyjamas up, his knee knocking Arthur in the chin. That wakes him up.

“Ow,” Arthur says, standing. With one hand rubbing his jaw, he tucks himself in with the other. “Merlin. You’re clumsy as ever.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Merlin says, tugging Arthur closer. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur grumbles, moving his jaw side to side, testing the feeling. “It only hurts a little.” He’s teasing, of course, it’s not a big deal, but Merlin is so gullible, it’s worth the effort.

“Aw,” Merlin says softly, cupping Arthur’s chin and kissing it once, twice, three times. With each kiss, his lips are moving up higher and higher, until they meet Arthur’s. Their kiss this time is easy, gentle, almost chaste, and for that -- sweeter. Merlin exhales into Arthur’s mouth, murmurs something, his hand pressing against Arthur’s back, drawing Arthur closer…

“You wankers!” Will’s outraged voice breaks their bliss. He’s standing at the open door, gaping at a snogging Merlin and Arthur. “You really _are_ shagging!”

Merlin jerks, trying to extricate himself from Arthur. Arthur squeezes his arms around Merlin’s shoulders harder, not letting him go. Their eyes meet, Merlin’s panicked and apologetic, and Arthur’s calm, undeterred. Arthur arches his eyebrow slightly in question. Merlin tenses, teeth pressing into his lip, then he exhales and nods almost imperceptibly. That’s more than enough for Arthur.

He slides his hand into Merlin’s and twines their fingers together. “Unfortunately, not tonight,” Arthur says coolly. “But I certainly count on it once my boyfriend moves out of here tomorrow and into my room.”

Merlin’s soft, breathless laugh is worth far more than any Gold Arthur will ever earn in his career.

 

_Rio, Day 6_

 

Later, the media will say that the men’s Medley Relay in Rio 2016 will go down as one of the most incredible split races in the history of the Olympics. It’s races like this that inspire kids across the world to start swimming so that one day they can become next Arthur Pendragon and Merlin Emrys -- in pool and outside of the pool. Because one’s greatness is not just measured by the strength of their muscles and the size of their lungs, but by the courage and selflessness of their hearts. 

But what Arthur remembers most about that day aren’t the cameras, the flashes, or the fanfare afterwards, not even the solid weight of the medal around his neck. His most memorable moment will always be standing on the podium among his teammates, while clutching the hand of the only person he can’t imagine not sharing this victory with. _Of course,_ Merlin was _crying,_ while trying to sing the national anthem and botching nearly every word of it. He would’ve denied it if footage of his sobbing wasn’t shown on a loop on every station in the UK.

And if someone asks Merlin, Merlin will say that his favourite memory of that day is not the big win or the emotional medal ceremony. He’ll point to the framed selfie that sits proudly on the fireplace mantle of the flat he and Arthur share together. It’s a photo of Merlin and Arthur in their room in Rio, with Merlin gazing at the camera and Arthur staring at him, kissing his knuckles.

That selfie, tweeted by Merlin, trended for days.

**The End**

 


End file.
